


smiles and lies and half-pleasantries

by ThePrettyTomboy



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Pirate, Biting, Clothed Sex, Enemies With Benefits, Grinding, M/M, Neck Kissing, Romantic Rivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24939580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrettyTomboy/pseuds/ThePrettyTomboy
Summary: "Escalation had always been Kokichi’s weapon of choice. But in a reversal he hadn't anticipated, Rantaro rose to the unspoken challenge."Pirate AU. An argument over Shuichi between pirate king Kokichi and privateer captain Rantaro gets...heated.
Relationships: Amami Rantaro/Oma Kokichi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	smiles and lies and half-pleasantries

**Author's Note:**

> Look, my thought process was "pirate clothes sexy", so this is anachronistic as hell. Also this is a single scene from a wider story that I'm plotting but probably won't get around to writing. Essentially DICE boarded Rantaro's ship while Rantaro and Shuichi were searching for Rantaro's sisters, and the boats sailed into a different dimension where there are no celestial bodies and are stranded in the middle of an infinite sea. Everyone is an adult. That's it, that's the context.
> 
> A junk is a Chinese boat, kunai are a kind of throwing knife, dimije is another word for harem pants.
> 
> That's all I've got, enjoy my contribution to the fandom.

The wide neck of Rantaro’s slouchy blue shirt slipped down over the top of his shoulder, exposing a collarbone so sharp Kokichi had the fleeting urge to cut his teeth on it. But that smirk was back, the one Rantaro wore when he lied, easy and disarming and absolutely _pissing Kokichi off_.

Two could play at easy deception. Kokichi inspected the grit beneath his ragged fingernails, his hips held at a haughty angle and his eyes turned away from the fleeting temptations that lay along the captain's body. “What makes you think I want your boy toy?”

“Just a feeling,” said Rantaro with an unaffected tone that plainly stated, _Because I’m not blind._

“If I wanted him, he'd be mine already.” Kokichi flicked a speck of grime away and turned his own playful grin onto Rantaro. A battle fought with smiles and lies and half-pleasantries. “I _am_ a pirate king. I have no reason to ask nicely for what I want.”

Rantaro spread his fingers—rough from years spent at sea, long enough to wrap around Kokichi’s arms, around his neck, around his... _well_ —over the surface of the desk that separated them, two feet of solid teak all that stood between Kokichi and whatever violence Rantaro was plotting for daring to pursue his plaything. “Well then, _your majesty_ , you won’t have a problem canceling your dinner plans with _my_ guest.” He tilted his head to the side, teeth bared in a predatory smile, the muscles of his exposed shoulder tensing against the urge to cross the barrier and make good on his veiled threats.

Perhaps against his better judgment, Kokichi snorted. “I don’t need your blessing.” He met the creeping approach of Rantaro's fingers with his right palm flat against the desk and leaned across, a gleam of mischief aimed over his shoulder. “Maybe I _will_ make him my pet.”

Hot breath broke over Kokichi’s cheekbones as Rantaro half-rose from his velvet armchair, smile stretched so thin it could break. “All it takes is one word from me for cannons to misfire in the direction of the floating trash heap you call a junk. Unless you want to meet the demons at the bottom of the sea, find other company before nightfall.”

Kokichi lifted his hand from the desk, balancing himself on one hip, and reached through the daggers between them to adjust Rantaro’s shirt, safely concealing his collarbone from view. “Your confidence is cute,” he said, wiggling his fingers in Rantaro's face, “but I think we’re done here.” He pushed hard off the desk, brandishing his tightly-breeched backside for Rantaro to kiss if he so chose, and sauntered away. But a scant breath before he reached out to slide the door open, a kunai that glinted fire in the candlelight whizzed past Kokichi’s ear and sank into the wood with a hollow _thunk_. He stiffened in surprise.

Battle with weapons was fine too. Kokichi shimmied the blade out of the door and brandished it between his fingers. “You dropped something.”

Rantaro lounged with his legs tossed over the arm of the chair and his head perched in one hand so artfully an outsider might mistake him for portraiture. “Whoops.” His rich green eyes swam with exactly as much sincere apology as his words contained. He didn’t flinch when Kokichi returned the weapon in kind, blade buried deep into the cushion beside his head.

“What exactly,” Kokichi said, ambling back toward Rantaro with what he hoped was a menacing gait, “makes you think your petty threats can deter me?”

“Goodwill and belief in your understanding nature.”

“I have spent my whole _life_ evading bigger and more powerful men than you will _ever_ be,” Kokichi spat. This time when he leaned over the desk, he faced Rantaro with the venom of a sea serpent poised to strike. The faint spice of rum enveloped him as he leveled his gaze with the captain’s. “I _own_ the sea, and I will _never_ ask for permission to take what I want from its spoils.”

Rantaro met his animosity with the composed lilt of a man as accustomed to threats as Kokichi himself.

“Shuichi may have entered these waters on your ship, in your company, but the second I boarded this imperial boot-licking boat, he became _my_ prize. You can threaten my ship all you want, you can threaten _me_ all you want, but I didn’t build an empire by backing down at the first hint of danger. I am _not_ —”

What Kokichi wasn’t, he supposed Rantaro wasn’t interested in knowing, because the captain rose from his chair, hooked two fingers between the buttons of Kokichi’s shirt, twisted his fist into the billowy linen and _yanked_. If Rantaro’s breath was spice, his tongue was all sugar. He slipped past Kokichi’s chapped lips and traced the outline of his teeth from canine to canine before releasing the stunned pirate. Something like victory tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Thought that might shut you up.”

Fire bloomed in Kokichi’s blood, reaching from the tips of his ears to his breastbone; no amount of reeling in his emotions could erase the blush from his skin. If Kokichi walked away now, Rantaro won, so instead he slid tidily across the desk, sending an inkwell and a stack of papers—perhaps love letters home, perhaps the ship’s manifest—tumbling to the ground. He planted his feet on either emerald-encrusted arm of Rantaro’s chair. Escalation had always been Kokichi’s weapon of choice. But in a reversal he hadn't anticipated, Rantaro rose to the unspoken challenge, calloused fingers curling around the slight curve of Kokichi’s waist.

Kokichi dipped his head back and quirked an eyebrow, dark hair pooling against his shoulders, hands steepled against the desk to keep from tangling his fingers into sun-bleached curls. Rantaro skipped Kokichi’s mouth and blazed kisses along his jawline; Kokichi’s breath stuttered in his chest when the captain’s lips found purchase beneath his earlobe. There was no one-uppance at play as they sank into the heat of each other’s mouths. Rantaro raked his hands down Kokichi’s thighs, pulling their bodies flush, heart pounding staccato against Kokichi’s ribs. Kokichi hooked one ankle around Rantaro’s thigh for balance and fumbled with the buttons buried under the ruffles at his own throat. He cursed himself to the locker and back for dressing so formally for their meeting.

Rantaro smoothed his fingers into Kokichi’s bangs, tipping the tricorn off his head in the process. He nipped the tip of Kokichi’s nose, trailed breath along his newly-exposed throat, grazed teeth against his Adam’s apple. One well-aimed collision of hips had Kokichi swallowing down all number of unbecoming noises that Rantaro chased back to the pirate’s lips. Kokichi anchored his elbows around Rantaro’s neck in a desperate bid for some kind of mooring against the tide of attention. Their bodies were a maelstrom, crashing together without rhythm and shattering any illusion of dispassion they might have feigned. Harsh, shallow breaths and the scratch of wool on silk drowned out the gentle lap of waves against the hull; Kokichi lost track of Rantaro’s mouth in the frenzy of movement.

Kokichi’s teeth found flesh and clamped down on an unbidden moan hard enough to scrape collarbone. The moment shattered; Rantaro shoved Kokichi away with such force that Kokichi’s back connected to the table with a breath-stealing _smack_ , lifting the last fog of siren song to reveal the emerging brand he’d left on the captain’s chest.

Heaving for breath, Rantaro brought his fingers to the bite mark and said, deadpan, “Ow.”

Kokichi wheezed a traitorous chuckle. “Whoops.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows and surveyed the rest of the damage he’d done: Rantaro’s lips swollen and pupils blown wide, his sweat-slicked hair wilder than usual, the slack of his dimije notably absent. Pride and perhaps something else that Kokichi wasn’t willing to acknowledge swelled beneath his ribs. Blouse still unbuttoned down to his waist, he somersaulted backward off the desk and landed in a crouch, face disciplined back into a smirk that told nothing of his discomposure. “Well, captain, it’s been fun, but I _do_ have dinner plans tonight.” Kokichi waltzed unsteadily toward the door. “Try not to miss me too much,” he sang.

Barely ten steps free of the danger that lurked in Rantaro’s office, Kokichi smacked into another body and stumbled back from the force of their collision.

“Kokichi?” Shuichi’s wide, gorgeously lashed amber eyes took in far too much with a single glance. “Are you...okay?”

Illogical panic flooded Kokichi’s nerves. He folded his arms behind his head and shone a blinding grin at the other man. “I just escaped a hoard of drunken sailors! So you probably shouldn’t go that way,” he said, then dropped his voice into a suggestive lilt, “unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

As predicted, Shuichi spluttered denial, long enough for Kokichi to slip away from the dangerous waters of his rapt attention. The strange flat light of the sunless sky touched the top of Kokichi’s scalp, reminding him of his tricorn lying on the floor of Rantaro’s office for Shuichi to find. Nothing to do about it now. He shrugged to himself and skipped across the gangplank to his own ship. Safe in his own territory, Kokichi barked orders that he was not to be disturbed and swung up the shrouds to settle in the crow’s nest. He sank below the rim and out of sight, closed his eyes, basked in the lingering buzz of adrenaline, danced fingers along his breastbone but no lower.

His conflict with the captain was yet unresolved, but Kokichi had planted a new seed of want in Rantaro’s mind and... _other_ places that sent a thrill of need coursing through his own body. It could hardly be called a resounding victory. After all, Rantaro had sown desire in Kokichi as well.


End file.
